Trilogy: The First Three Books in the Amber For Go Series

by Paul Harris

  “Of course I’ve seen Englishmen before,” spluttered Jarni, feeling somewhat offended by the naive suggestion that he hadn’t. “There were many at the University.”

  Cak grunted. “Of course; the University,” and he spat on the ground.

  The sun was falling from the sky and casting long shadows across the cobblestones of the square like huge fingers pointing, and admonishing wrongdoers. A group of roughly clothed vagrants who were gathered around a bench clutching brown paper bags began to quarrel between themselves. This, too, attracted Cak’s attention. He inspected the faces of the antagonists one by one. He seemed amused, almost condescending, but not one of the tramps was clad more poorly than he was himself.

  The three men in front had also stopped to observe the noisy dispute and they too seemed quite amused by the drama that was drunkenly unfolding before them. The locals, however, were completely unruffled and disinterested in the proceedings. It was as if this was only to be expected on any given evening. The children continued to cavort in the fountains and the middle-aged tradesmen continued to engage with blushing spinsters.

  “Anyway,” said Jarni, “how do you know that they’re English? They could quite easily be French. I didn’t hear them talking. Did you?”

  “Look.” they both looked up at the huge Cathedral clock. “It is barely past six o’clock and they are drunk already. They are English, I tell you.”

  “They didn’t look drunk to me.”

  “But of course they are drunk, they are English.”

  Jarni sighed. “Maybe so. But, should we not be turning back.”

  Cak wrapped one of his broad arms around Jarni’s slender shoulders. “Yes, my young friend, we’ll head back now. We’ll eat and later we’ll go for a nice trip along the river.”

  “Where to?” asked Jarni, somewhat alarmed.

  Cak smiled mysteriously. “Who knows?” and he steered Jarni through the crowds of early evening commuters and back to their temporary residence next to the boatyard.

  After consuming a meal of bread and cheese and boiled eggs, washed down by innumerable enamelled steel mugs full of home brewed ale, Cak eventually stirred himself into a sudden flurry of activity and began to rouse Jarni from what was rapidly becoming a deep slumber.

  “What is it?” Jarni demanded to know. “Intruders?”

  “Come! Bring some food.”

  Jarni collected a couple of boiled eggs from the stained yellow dish sitting on the floor before him. He had eaten very little from it as yet, but found that he had no appetite. They left the shack by the back door and Cak was suddenly moving with some great urgency. He had a look of grave determination on his face and spoke not once as they stepped over the low stone wall into the boatyard where he bundled Jarni into a rowing boat which was bobbing up and down on its mooring in the shadows of the great trees, almost as if it had been expecting them; as if it were waiting there for a clandestine assignation. Cak took the oar from the hull of the boat and handed it to Jarni. He instructed him to prod it against the bank and, as he did so, they began to drift along the river with the gentle current. They remained, though, close to the bank, always in the shadows of the trees and sometimes even snagging on the undergrowth and reeds.

  As they headed through the twilight towards the lights of the city, they saw the large houses that backed onto the river. They passed by them, one by one, at a leisurely pace as if they were on a Venetian gondola. The imposing outlines of these grand residences were silhouetted at the end of rolling lawns that were dotted with fruit trees. Light bulbs twinkled in some of the windows and the images cast by television screens flickered and feinted. Cak strained to peer at them through the poor light with what Jarni thought was some degree of agitation. Cak was fidgeting with his fingers. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his soiled jacket and mopped his brow with it.

  The water was tranquil and green, and seemed to rouse itself from its slumber each time Jarni disturbed it by dipping the paddle. The air was still and mild. Jarni raised his head and held his face against the slight breeze created by the movement of the boat. He took a deep breath and held it whilst he savoured the smells of the blossom and the riverbank. He slowly began to close his eyes and drift along with the boat.

  Eventually, Cak tugged at the cuff of his shirt sleeve. “This will do,” he told him.

  Jarni looked at him. “What will do?”

  “Here. Park it here.” Cak snatched the oar from Jarni’s grasp with some exasperation and guided their vessel alongside a small and haphazardly structured pier. “Get out!” He pushed Jarni from the boat, dropped the oar, and jumped onto the pier beside his companion. “Tether the boat,” he whispered.

  Jarni did as he was bid and loosely wrapped the rope around the mooring post on the jetty. Cak grabbed him by his collar and dragged him behind a bush. They were in a long, neatly tended garden at the back of a splendid looking red-brick house.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Do you see a light? There in the window?”

  “I see no lights.”

  “In the upstairs window? Look!”

  Jarni looked but could see nothing of any lights. “There are no lights in any of the windows. Can we leave now?”

  Cak took him by the arm and led him towards the house. They paused behind a tree and, again, Cak checked for lights and the signs of life. They could see nothing. They could hear nothing but for the lapping of the water against the boat behind them.

  A cold chill ran down Jarni’s spine and he shuddered. “What are we doing here?” The hairs were standing up on the back of his neck.

  “Come!”

  They peered into the house through the kitchen window. There was darkness within.

  “Come!” Cak dragged Jarni as far as the back door of the house and then released his grip on him. He plunged his elbow through a window pane and reached through it between shards of glass to release the latch on the door.

  “What on Earth are you doing?” whispered Jarni anxiously. “You can’t do this!”

  “Shut up!!” demanded Cak and he pushed the door open. As he stepped inside the house, he paused, faltered, and turned to Jarni and licked his lips. “You hear that?” he whispered.

  Jarni listened. There was something; a sound from inside the house; the patter of footsteps maybe. But, no; too feint, too small, too quick; like a rapid heartbeat; like Jarni’s heartbeat.

  The bark of a dog! A big dog!

  “Run!” yelled Cak, “Run!”

  They ran the length of the garden, gasping for air, back to where the boat… was no longer moored.

  “Where the hell’s the boat?” screamed Cak.

  Jarni was silent. He was gazing back towards the house. He could see a shadow bounding relentlessly towards them at great speed. The barking was growing louder and louder still, and more ferocious with every yard the dog was gaining on them.

  “Where the hell’s the damned boat?”

  Jarni was rooted to the spot, his entire life flashing through his mind.

  “Come!” shouted Cak as he hurriedly removed his boots and threw them at their looming assailant. “Come on!” As he dived into the river, he heard a crunching sound behind him, rather like a dog chewing on a bone. There was a gasp of air, a murmur, and as Cak began to swim, he looked back over his shoulder and saw Jarni lying in the mud, face down in the shallow water beside the pier. The giant Doberman was on his back, still barking, and drooling, and driving his fangs into the back of Jarni’s neck. Jarni wasn’t moving; he wasn’t struggling; he wasn’t fighting for his life. There was no life left to fight for.

  It’s all about Stealth

  “Remember it’s all about stealth.”

  “Yeah, stealth mode, man.”

  “Exactly.”

  They stole out under the cover of darkness like thieves in the night. This particular night was silent, dark, and damp. They tip-toed without reason, avoiding the intermittent glare of the street lighting, and lurked in
the shadows like devils.

  “Do you think the bikes’ll still be there, Len?” whispered Finn.

  Without replying to his question, Lenny told his brother to be quiet. They wore black hoods over their heads which partly concealed their beady eyes and their tightly gritted teeth. Finn’s heart leapt at every sound, however feint. The stillness of the night accentuated the rattle of every garden gate as it was pushed to and fro by the gentle breeze. The dull whistle of the wind itself was as a mournful soundtrack to the evening. White clouds sped quickly across a dark blue sky.

  “How come there ain’t no stars, Len?”

  “Shut up!” hissed Lenny.

  They traipsed past the Underground station and even that was deserted. The steel shutters were locked across the entrance and bundles of freely distributed newspapers were piled up against them. A flyer for the Clarendon Hotel had been hastily taped to the brown glazed tiles beside the station entrance and the ink was beginning to run as the paper absorbed moisture from the misty air. The distant cry of an owl disturbed the stillness and Finn, in a blind panic, fell down the kerb and staggered theatrically into the road, the plastic soles of his trainers clip-clopping on the wet tarmac like a Crimean cavalry charge.

  “Oh my God!” he exclaimed hurriedly as he regained his balance. “What on Earth was that?”

  “It was only an owl. Stop making all that racket!”

  “You don’t get owls in this country, you idiot; not here.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Well, where do they live then?”

  “In trees, dummy. Where do birds usually live?”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous! What about barn owls?”

  “Obviously, they live in barns, innit.”

  “What about snowy owls then, since you’re so full of it?”

  “Shut up, Finn! Have you ever seen a snowy owl when it’s not snowing?”

  “No.” Finn pondered for a moment. “Can’t say that I have, to be honest. I don’t think I’ve seen one at all.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what? I’ve never seen a barn owl either.”

  “You’ve never seen a barn, that’s why. Now, stop chatting shit.”

  Lenny grabbed Finn by the shoulder and dragged him out of the road, out of the arc of the street lights, and back into the shadows. The brothers continued their short journey together, mooching and lurking in furtive rotation. Along the empty street, they could see from the station all the way up the Bridge Road; all the way up to the Pig & Whistle, and beyond, into bedsit-land. They could see the dark steel roller-shutter door pulled down tight outside the corner shop window. They could see that their bicycles were not where they had left them.

  Finn shuddered. “There’re no owls around here. That was some kind of evil spirit. A white lady, or a grey lady, or a headless child, or something.”

  “How would a headless child make a sound like an owl?”

  “They do though. It’s a fact. It was too high-pitched to be a grown-up man.”

  “So, let’s get this right: you believe in ghosts and evil spirits and that the corpses of headless children are out roaming the streets at all hours, but you resolutely refuse to accept the existence of owls?”

  Finn didn’t quite nod his head in agreement with his older brother’s assertion but he certainly didn’t shake it in denial.

  “You’re weird, Finn.”

  “Where do you reckon the bikes are, though?”

  “Perhaps a headless corpse has pinched them, or perhaps they’re up the side of the shop out of the way.”

  Lenny’s sarcasm notwithstanding, the bikes were indeed out of the way, and had been dragged up the small path at the side of the shop. They smiled at one another when they saw the silhouette of the handlebars against a neighbouring wall-mounted security light. Their smiles waned rather dramatically as, on closer examination, they saw the thick steel chains and the mighty padlocks wrapped around the bikes and binding them to a rusty two inch thick U-bolt, itself, in turn, buried in a concrete plinth.

  “We should have brought a hacksaw,” whispered Finn.

  “A hacksaw? Have you seen the size of those chains? We’d be here until tomorrow night. We need a disc cutter.”

  “Do you know how much noise one of those things makes? I bet the geezer’s got CCTV as well.”

  “He can ram his CCTV! They’re our bikes. We’re rescuing our own stuff!”

  Finn pondered for a moment. “Well, strictly speaking…”

  “Okay, technically, they’re not our bikes. What’s in that envelope?”

  “What envelope?”

  “The one that’s taped to your saddle.”

  Finn tore the envelope apart and a small slip of white paper drifted towards the ground. Finn caught it before it drifted into a puddle of blackened rainwater. “It’s a note.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “If you want your bikes back, come and see me, and bring my Jack Daniels with you.”

  “Let’s go get a saw,” said Lenny and he led Finn back down the path to the main road.

  As they reached the street light in front of the shop, Finn froze. “Listen!” he demanded in an agitated whisper. “That’s not an owl. That’s definitely not an owl. Owl’s don’t do heavy breathing.”

  “How do you know if you’ve never seen one before?”

  “Of course they don’t. Listen, the wind’s growling and panting.” They bent their ears against the slight breeze and heard a low muffled growl. “Now, do you believe me?” asked Finn, sounding partly triumphant and partly terrified. “This is how the Hound of the Baskervilles started.”

  “You’ve never read the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “I watched the film with Mum. It was in black and white. It could be a werewolf, even.”

  For an extremely brief moment, a gap formed in the clouds above and a full moon peered inquisitively from between them. As they gazed anxiously in the direction of the disturbance, Finn and Lenny saw a fox standing motionlessly, its ears pricked and its eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. The fox stared back at them as if he was wondering just what dark deeds they were up to.

  “It’s only a fox,” breathed Lenny.

  “Well, I can see it ain’t an owl!”

  The fox coughed and then strolled away with a nonchalant air of arrogance. But, as he disappeared into the darkness, it gradually became apparent to the two brothers that the low guttural growling and the sound of heavy panting had not departed with him. And, now, they heard footsteps and the bark of a dog. They turned to see two mean and angry looking bull terriers straining on their leads and making a bee-line straight towards them.

  On the opposite end of the leads, Bo Billox was striding across the road and proudly addressing himself to his dogs. “Now then, Zeus. Now then, Apollo. What do we have here then, sniffing around at this ungodly hour? It looks like a couple of spotty little bagheads to me.”

  Zeus and Apollo barked in unison, completely in agreement with their master.

  “On the rob, boys?” enquired Bo, now addressing Lenny and Finn.

  “No!” said Lenny with a tone of utter disgust.

  “What then?”

  The dogs were almost standing up on their hind legs, snarling and ripping the air with their fangs only inches away from Finn’s face.

  “Get ’em away,” shouted Finn. “Those beasts ought to be muzzled.”

  “I’ll muzzle you if you don’t stop your wailing. I’ll have you know that these beauties are the Met’s finest trained sniffer dogs and they get ever so excited when they get a whiff of something. Know what I mean?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying to explain to you pair of plums that I’m from the drug squad, so hand it over.”

  “Hand what over?” asked Lenny, feeling slightly bemused.

  “You’re not from the police anyway,” said Finn, “you’re just a fruitcake who’s escape from some institution somewhere
.”

  “A what?” raged Bo. “A fruitcake, you say? An institute? Hand it over anyway or I’ll have my boys tear your throats out.” He loosened his grip on the leads ever so slightly but enough for Finn to take fright and stumble backwards into Lenny.

  Lenny grabbed his brother’s hood and began to drag him across the road. “Run!” he screamed. They ran as fast as they possibly could, expecting, at any moment, to be taken down from behind, with an immoveable jaw clamped tightly around their Achilles tendons. They reached the traffic lights at the top of the High Street without hindrance and, above the pounding of their hearts and the howling of Zeus and Apollo, they could just about discern Bo Billox, howling with a madman’s laughter in the distance.

  That Night in Rue Lamartine

  Although understandably shaken by the death of his dear friend and travelling companion, Cak Lazlo was a veteran of war. He had witnessed atrocities. God knows, he may even have committed atrocities of his own. He had seen men die before and he had heard them scream for mercy. Neither sentimentality nor grief ever touched Cak Lazlo; not for very long at least.

  Vengeance, however, was a different kettle of fish all together. Cak and Vengeance walked hand-in-hand, tip-toeing through meadows full of daisies and dandelions, pulling transgressors and enemies from trees, and crushing them like insects. Cak stood shoulder to shoulder with Vengeance and admired him greatly.

  After changing into some dry clothes and borrowing some shoes from one of his compatriots; shoes that were in an even greater state of disrepair than the boots that he had recently discarded, Cak took a sombre stroll back into the town. The sky was overcast and, as fine raindrops began to fall, he found a bar on Rue Lamartine that was both dark and anonymous, where he could hide in the shadows and drown his sorrows: a place where he could regroup, and redraw his plans; a place where he could nurse his feelings of indignation.